Dinner Conversation
by jtptan
Summary: Ezio has a somewhat one-sided conversation.


Title: Dinner Conversation

Characters: Ezio Auditore, Maria Auditore

Summary: Ezio has a somewhat one-sided conversation.

AN: I was thinking about how very young Ezio is in the early game, and this happened.

As he always has done on nights he spends in Monteriggioni, Ezio carefully navigates the stairs while carrying the platter of food up to his mother's room for dinner. Claudia claims only he can cajole her into finishing a plate of food.

The side table holds some papers Claudia must have been working on before he arrived earlier in the afternoon, full of calculations on what repairs they can afford for what areas of the town. He shifts the platter to one arm and picks up the papers before setting it down. There is no folder nearby so he simply stacks them neatly on the floor. He will bring them down to her desk later.

Mother has not reacted to him entering her rooms. She never does.

"Good evening, Mother. I brought you some supper." She says nothing, but does rise from her praying position at the foot of the bed to come to the table. Ezio holds her chair for her as she sits down, then moves the little stool he always sits on over to join her at the table.

"I found some more eagle feathers for your box. I think that makes twenty now. They are in my saddle bags, but I will bring them up to you tomorrow morning. I also found some of the sweets Claudia likes while I was away this time. Perhaps it will save me some tongue lashing tomorrow."

Mechanically, his mother takes small bites of the piece of bread that arrived with her meal, not bothering to put anything on it. He always forgets to do this for her _before _she eats.

"Here, mother, why not some butter with that? Or some jam?"

No response.

Ezio sighs. "I am doing what I can, you know. The Pazzi will soon be no more. I will not rest until _every last one of them_ is dead and our family avenged."

He likes to imagine that she hears what he says on these evenings. It seems so.

"Mother…" he trails off. The question has been on his mind for some time now. "Did you know about father? About his real work?" It is unlikely he will ever get an answer. "You must have," he answers himself. "he told you everything. You were so close, a real love match."

"I have to do this work. For him, for Federico, for Petruccio, for… you. But I do not understand why he _chose _this life."

Nothing. She finishes taking small bites of her bread and puts it down on her plate. He takes it and slathers some butter on it before replacing it. "Some meat, now, Mother. Please." Ezio waits while she takes up her utensils and starts to eat again.

"You know what Uberto told me? That he did it for his family. That I would do the same. I have, and I will again. I cannot keep from wondering if I am so different from him. I do my work, or train, and little else. Claudia runs the estate on her own, with Uncle Mario off on his business and me off on my own. I sign the papers she tells me to for expenditures and that's about it. _She_ is the one who inherited the head for finance in the family."

Ezio had been meant to become a banker, like his father – or what he thought his father was, anyway. Instead he'd followed a rather different set of footprints.

"My life is so changed from what I thought it would be. _I_ am changed. You should hear the things they say, the way people speak of 'the assassin' on the streets, as if I am some sort of demon with which to scare each other." He sighs, again, then makes a wry smile. "Perhaps I am. If the Pazzi spend some time in fear, it is to the good. Do you remember telling me to find something productive to do with my life? A hobby besides vaginas, you said. Instead I worry I am becoming a monster, no different from the men I hunt."

He laughs, a little. It is a sad sound, even to him.

The clinking of cutlery has stopped. He freezes, arm resting on the table legs stretched out towards the bed, because he is too tall to comfortably sit on a footstool. Her hand reaches across the table. Slowly, haltingly, towards his arm.

He is more still and quiet than ever he has been while lying in wait. She does not look up, which is just as well, because every fibre of his being concentrates on that hand.

It is much harder to remain still than anything he has done in the last months.

The hand hovers, close to where his hand rests on the table, and descends. A light touch, so gentle he's not completely sure he has not imagined it, and the moment is gone. The hand retreats. Her unchanged blank expression gazes dolefully at her plate, still.

Ezio briefly wishes for the comforting concealment of his discarded hood, to hide his expression. The touch is so much, and so little, at once. He could never keep anything from her before, and doesn't bother to now, but it is just as well she will not look him in his face to read the emotions running through him now.

Grief, hope, unfairly impatient anger. He forces them down and searches for something to fill the silence.

"That," he voice cracks. He pauses, then starts again. "That was the day you introduced me to Leonardo. You always have good taste, in artists and character. He has remained a good friend, despite the trouble I bring him."

He tells her of what he saw at Leonardo's workshop the last time he visited, the ideas Leonardo tells him about, pausing here and there to encourage her to keep eating her meal. When she is finished, he stacks her dishes and holds her chair as she rises to return to her prayers.

"Mother," he puts his hand on her shoulder before she can kneel. "I know it is hard for you. Please hold on. Claudia and I, we cannot lose you too. I know you will return to us when you can." He embraces her briefly, but it is like embracing one of the straw men Mario uses to teach him new fighting styles on the rare occasions they are both at the villa at the same time.

Ezio releases his mother, knowing he cannot bring her back by force. He gathers the platter and Claudia's papers, and turns to go.

In the entrance, he looks back, but she has settled into the tableau he has become so very familiar with. "Thank you for listening."

That night he retreats to the attic he has claimed as his own. The faces of the men he has murdered stare at him from the walls, so that he can feel their eyes on him even through the darkness, even though he sleeps.

A phantom touch burns on his hand as if a talisman against the dark.


End file.
